The Flower Brides

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “You don’t say!” said Whitlock thoughtfully. “I never thought of her as having any background at all. Of course, I’m not running a philanthropic organization, but if you are willing to give her a few hints, I might give her another try. I’ll have a talk with her when I go back. But one of the worst things about her is her appearance. I suppose perhaps she can’t help that, but she’s so untidy, and she chews gum continually, and she tries to be so familiar, even when there are people in the office. It’s her idea of being chummy, I suppose, but it doesn’t make for a good office appearance.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Camilla thoughtfully, not noticing his glances of admiration. “I’ll be glad to try, at least. I’m sorry for her.”

  “Well,” said Whitlock, “I’ll give her a chance, of course, if you say so. Now, I suppose we ought to go back. I have an appointment with a representative of that Brooklyn firm in half an hour. This has been a real rest to get away from business.”

  “It’s been delightful,” said Camilla, rousing to her duty. “I’ve enjoyed the place and the lunch, and I’ve very much enjoyed your conversation. It has peopled this wonderful room with characters and made me forget all my perplexities.”

  “I’m sorry you have perplexities,” said the man in such a gentle tone that she looked up surprised and then summoned a proud little smile.

  “Oh, they’re not as great as they might be,” she said lightly. “In fact, when I think of Marietta’s life, I feel I ought not to call them perplexities. It’s awfully fine of you to be willing to try her again. I’ll do my very best to make her a success.”

  All the way back to the office Whitlock was his genial, pleasant self, nothing of the employer about him, but when he swung open the office door his reserved manner returned upon him.

  They heard poor Marietta’s typewriter clicking away as they approached the room, and she sat there stolidly working as they stood for an instant in the doorway. Then she looked up with a start, not having heard them coming, and her face was wet with tears. She certainly was not a prepossessing figure as she sat there plodding away at her work, a goodly pile of finished letters lying on the desk beside her. Her face was still streaked with makeup and her hair was uncrimped and sticking out grotesquely around her head. Camilla’s heart sank for her as she noticed how little like the model secretary she looked.

  Whitlock stood there a moment considering her, and then he hung up hat and coat and sat down at his desk, watching her.

  Camilla went to the cloakroom with her own things and came quietly back to her desk and began to work at some envelopes she was addressing.

  “Miss Pratt,” said Whitlock in his cold, brusque tone, and Marietta jumped and turned toward him, sweeping off an avalanche of typed pages with her arm. She stopped in great confusion to pick them up, saying “Yessir?” but her voice was choked with suppressed emotion.

  “I’ve been talking with Miss Chrystie about you,” said Whitlock when Marietta had replaced the papers and turned once more toward him.

  “Yessir!” said Marietta in a hopeless tone.

  “Miss Chrystie suggests that I give you another chance. Would you like to stay and try it again?”

  “Oh—!” said Marietta, with a quiver of her lip, looking at him as if she could not believe her ears. “Yessir!” she said with a quick little breath almost like a sob.

  “Would you be willing to take suggestions and act upon them, Miss Pratt?”

  “Oh— Yessir!” said Marietta in an excited tone, her syllables fairly tumbling over one another.

  “Up to the present time, Miss Pratt,” went on Whitlock, his tone brusque and critical, “you have been most unsatisfactory in three ways, I might say in every way. In your work, which has been erratic and slouching in appearance, and slower than any office should tolerate; in your appearance, which is both unattractive and untidy; and in your manner, which is often uncouth and bold. If you are willing to try to change these things, I am willing to give you another chance. If you will take Miss Chrystie’s suggestions and be more like her there might be some hope for you.”

  “Yessir,” said Marietta, giving him a wild, wistful look. Then suddenly dropping her head down on her machine, she sobbed out, “But I can’t never be like her. I haven’t got her looks!” And then her stubby shoulders shook with sobs.

  Whitlock looked distressed at the effect of his words, but he cleared his throat and tried to speak above her weeping.

  “I was not expecting you to perform miracles,” he said kindly. “I merely want a neat, efficient worker who knows how to act and how to dress and when not to speak. Suppose you talk it over with Miss Chrystie after your work is done and see what you think you can do. Perhaps you’d both like to go into the inner office for a few minutes. I’m expecting a man right now, and it won’t do to have you weeping all over the place.”

  Marietta rose hastily and went into the little back office, which was used mostly for the storage of supplies, and Camilla, following, found her sitting on a pile of typewriter paper, shaking with suppressed sobs.

  “Come, dear,” said Camilla, putting her hand hesitantly on the bowed head. “Let’s snap out of this. We can’t do anything if we give up at the start.”

  “We!” said Marietta, looking up. “It was you made him say this, and I’ll never forget it of you. But it isn’t any good. He’ll never keep me. I can’t ever be like you.”

  “Hush, Marietta, that man has come, and he’ll hear you. You don’t want to finish yourself before we begin, do you? Slip quietly into the washroom there and wash your face. Wash it hard and get all that lipstick and rouge off.”

  “But I haven’t any more to put on,” said Marietta remorsefully. “I left my makeup bag at home.”

  “That’s where you’d better keep it then, if you want to please Mr. Whitlock. He doesn’t want you to look like an actress. He just wants you neat.”

  “But I’ve got an awful sallow complexion,” sighed Marietta.

  When Marietta came out of the washroom she had a clean, subdued look, like a little wet hen that had been in the suds much against her will. Her hair was draggled around her face and in wet strands around her neck. Her eyes were swollen badly, but the streaks on her cheeks were gone and her mouth had assumed its normal shape and lost its ghastly cupid’s bow.

  “I don’t see how this is going to help,” she wailed. “I look awful.”

  “Where’s your comb, Marietta?” said Camilla.

  Marietta produced a small, broken affair with several teeth missing.

  “Sit down in that chair,” ordered Camilla.

  Marietta submitted herself to the other girl, and Camilla combed the recalcitrant locks until they were fairly smooth. They were not very clean, and Camilla shrank from contact with them, but she was determined to do her best for Marietta. She couldn’t do much with such hair in a few minutes, but she managed to subdue it to neatness, at least, and tucked the ends in, using three of her own hairpins. Such hair would never make a pretty bob, and it did seem almost hopeless.

  “You’re coming home with me tonight,” said Camilla as she finished her task. “I’m going to show you another way to do your hair, if you’ll let me.”

  “Oh, will you?” said Marietta eagerly. “Say! That’s wonderful! I never could make my hair look like anything.”

  “Well, we’ll find a way,” said Camilla, surveying the stubborn locks dubiously. “Now, Marietta, run back to the washroom and wash those spots off the front of your dress. That dress needs cleaning if you want to come up to Mr. Whitlock’s standards.”

  “Oh, I know,” said the girl, “but the sleeve’s ripped halfway out of the only other good one I have, and I didn’t have time ta mend it. Neither I didn’t have money ta send this ta the cleaner.”

  “Clean it yourself! That’s easy enough. I’ll show you some splendid cleaning liquid I have. And then, you know, soap and water will do a whole lot if you just take a little care.”

  “Oh, my land!�
� said Marietta, aghast. “You’d be an awful trouble to yourself.”

  “Why, yes certainly, Marietta, if you want to keep your job. You don’t know what a difference little things like that make. If you only hadn’t started to buy that fur coat! You know, you really need a good, well-fitting office dress.”

  “I was gonta get a figured crepe with two flounces going diagonal on the skirt and puffed elbow sleeves. It has red-and-white flowers on it, and it’s only five ninety-eight!” said Marietta eagerly.

  “But you know that’s not the kind of dress to wear to the office. You need a quiet, dark dress, with a white collar. Dark blue would be good for you. And you don’t want flounces; you need a simple dress and underthings that will make it fit well. You might have to pay more than that. How much have you paid down on your coat?”

  “Five dollars,” said the girl, “and I’m to pay two-fifty every week. It’s coney, white with a big collar! It’s swell!”

  “But, Marietta, you don’t need a white fur coat unless you are going to parties and operas. And coney is nothing but rabbit and won’t wear a season. Why don’t you just drop it, Marietta, and use the money as you get it to buy a few very well-cut dresses of good quality, that will give the right appearance for the office. That is really what you care for, isn’t it?”

  Marietta’s eyes got large with disappointment.

  “But I like pretty clothes,” she said with something like a wail in her voice.

  “Yes, of course,” said Camilla wisely, “but they must be suitable for the place and time in which you wear them, or they are not pretty. You haven’t any place to wear a white fur coat, nor dresses with diagonal flounces. And elbow sleeves are not fit for the office, except perhaps in very hot weather in cotton material. You know, to wear a cheap party dress to work in is not good taste and does not make a good impression. It sets you down as third-class right away. Mr. Whitlock wants girls in his office who look their part, well dressed and efficient, not cheap little frowsy girls who don’t know any better than to wear dressy frocks to work in.”

  Marietta stared at her sorrowfully.

  “All right,” she said at last, “I’ll give up the coat, but it was awful pretty, and I don’t guess I’ll ever get another chance for a fur coat. And all that good five dollars gone!”

  “Well, you certainly couldn’t have kept the coat if you lost your job. And if you keep your job and get to be the right kind of secretary, someday you might be able to buy a squirrel coat if you need it, who knows?”

  “My!” said Marietta. “I never thought of that! You think of a lot of things, don’t you? I like you an awful lot. I guess I’ll try ta do what you say, though I don’t know anybody else I’d do it for.”

  “All right!” said Camilla. “Then I’ll help you all I can! Now, come on in the other office, and let’s get these letters off. It’s half past three. We have a half hour. How many more have you to type?”

  “Only ten more. I’d uv had them all done ef you’d been another ten minutes.”

  “Good work! Are they letter-perfect? Are you sure?”

  “Yep, I went over each one as I finished it.”

  “All right, I’ll fold them and stamp them for you while you finish the rest. But say, Marietta, if I were you, I wouldn’t say ‘yep.’ It isn’t being done by office girls who get on. It doesn’t matter with me, of course, but it’s always best to keep in practice even when it doesn’t matter. You don’t mind my telling you, do you?”

  “Nop— No, I mean,” said the girl. “I want ta get right ef I can. But say, don’t I look awful plain with my hair this way?”

  “Not in the least,” said Camilla. “And we’ll fix it better tonight. Come, let’s hurry!”

  Mr. Whitlock did not return that afternoon. Instead, he telephoned Camilla and seemed pleased that the letters had gone out. Marietta was listening. Her eyes shone when she heard his tone of commendation. She drew a sigh of relief as she started away from the office in Camilla’s company.

  “My it’s nice ta have a girlfriend!” she said with satisfaction, and Camilla’s heart stood aghast at the thought. She was wondering how many unpleasant things this helping of Marietta was going to let her in for? Well, she was the Lord’s servant. She couldn’t refuse an obvious duty like trying to help Marietta keep her job, even if it wasn’t going to be the pleasantest thing in the world.

  “What’ll your mother say, me coming home with you like this?” Marietta asked as Camilla opened the door with her key.

  “She’ll be glad to see you,” said Camilla, thanking her stars that she had such a mother upon whom she could count in emergencies.

  “Mother, I’ve brought Marietta home with me for supper,” sang out Camilla as she entered the tiny hall.

  “Now isn’t that nice!” answered Mother Chrystie at once, appearing in the dining room door. “I’m so glad I decided to make potpie. I thought maybe we’d have company tonight! I’m delighted to meet you, Marietta. Camilla has told me about you. Now, get your things off quickly, girls. The potpie is all ready to be served.”

  Marietta was shy and embarrassed at the table, but her eyes were shining. She watched the loving looks between mother and daughter hungrily, and once she said, “My, I wish I had a home like this! I never tasted potpie before. My stepmother doesn’t know how to cook very well.”

  She helped with the dishes, and afterward Camilla took her in the bathroom and taught her how to shampoo her hair and then how to curl it softly and loosely around her face and how to coax the long stiff locks into a neat little knot. Camilla hunted up an organdy collar she had made recently and told Marietta to mend the sleeve of her other dress and wear the new collar next day. Marietta vowed eternal loyalty to her and declared she’d try to do everything she was told. Mrs. Chrystie gave her a bag of cookies for Ted, and so Marietta went happily home at last, wearing her hair in an almost becoming style and holding the new collar and cookies tenderly.

  “Thus endeth the first lesson!” laughed Camilla as she finally shut the door after her guest and sank wearily into a big chair. “Mother, I don’t know what you’ll think of me, but I had to undertake her reformation. She was about to lose her job.”

  “Dear child!” said her mother understandingly. “I’m glad you did it, though I can see that it’s not going to be all rest and pleasure for you. But it’s a heavenly thing to do, and I think the angels watching you love it that you are doing it.”

  “The angels?”

  “Yes,” said her mother brightly, “didn’t you know, we have an audience all the time, we Christians? I was just reading about it this morning, how we are made a spectacle for the world and for angels. And it seems that word angels includes bad ones, too, demons who are watching the Christians’ walk. Yes, I’m glad you did this, dear, and if there’s any way I can help, I will. Poor, homely, lonely girl! But you know, Camilla, she didn’t look so bad when you got her hair fixed. She really didn’t.”

  When Camilla, weary with the day, crept into her bed, it came to her suddenly that she hadn’t had time to think about Wainwright and Stephanie Varrell all day long. Then, just as she was falling to sleep, there came that sharp, sweet memory of a kiss that seemed like a dream that had never been.

  The next few days were interesting for Camilla. Mr. Whitlock was suddenly called to New York on business, and he left with only a few hurried directions and a promise to call her up later and find out what was in the mail. He was gone before Marietta arrived at the office, which was a good thing, perhaps, for Marietta had not been quite such a success with the arrangement of her hair as Camilla had hoped, and it had to be done over again. But Camilla fixed her up and began to stimulate her to work and see what she could accomplish while Mr. Whitlock was away, to surprise him.

  This was perhaps the very stimulus Marietta needed, for she was still a child in many ways and was greatly intrigued by the idea of surprising and pleasing her employer.

  Camilla, moreover, was pleased that he had entruste
d her with his affairs during his absence and took pride in having everything move on as if he had been there, and even Marietta caught the spirit and tried to act brisk and businesslike when anyone came in.

  She brought no more novels to the office to read. She was too anxious to work every minute and get the pile of typing done that had been assigned to her.

  And then Saturday afternoon Camilla took part of her precious half-holiday and went shopping with Marietta, to help her find just the right things. Mr. Whitlock was returning Monday morning, and Marietta was determined to get some new clothes before he arrived.

  By this time she was getting fairly skillful at managing her unruly hair, and even in her ill-fitting, unsuitable clothes, she looked much subdued. Camilla hoped that with the purchase of a few much-needed garments, Mr. Whitlock could not help but see a change even in so short a time. So the shopping expedition was planned, and Marietta was almost too excited to work all Saturday morning.

  They went to Camilla’s house with their packages, and Marietta dressed up in her new dress, a trim dark blue with white collar and cuffs. Miss York came in, was introduced, and approvingly entered into the scheme of things without having to be told what it was all about. And before Marietta left she slipped in her bag a sheet of paper on which was written in the nurse’s clear handwriting a few rules for bathing and breathing, exercise and diet, that Miss York told Marietta would greatly improve the complexion she was deploring. Taking it altogether, Camilla was quite satisfied about her protégée, and it was with much eagerness that she anticipated Monday morning and the return of Mr. Whitlock. She hadn’t done anything in a long time that was so interesting as fixing up poor, little homely Marietta Pratt. At least, not anything real. She kept telling herself now that her contact with Wainwright had not been real, only a sort of fairy tale, and fairy tales never came true. They were only to dream about. And dreaming like that wasn’t at all wholesome, so Camilla entered into the redemption of Marietta Pratt—physical, intellectual, and spiritual—with all her heart. She wanted to keep from thinking. She wanted to keep from dreaming.